It's Friday night and my girlfriend at this point (and thankfully still my girlfriend as I write this, for how long is a topic currently up for debate, but more on that later) has been feeling very stressed lately due to the increased workload that came along with purchasing her own design business. I've been a bit strung out lately, mainly with spending all my time bemoaning how much work I have to do and thereby leaving very little time to actually do any work.
So it's been a while since we've done anything 'fun'. I say 'fun', instead of simply fun due to the fact that we are discussing her definition of the word, not exactly in line with my own.
She's a 21 year old self-confessed public hermit with an unhealthy adoration of clever nerds, luckily for me, and BDSM, not so luckily for me.
In the interests of privacy she'll be known as Renee and I as Greg (Although if this ever gets published you can clearly see my name on the cover, no doubt under the Oprah book club sticker).
One of her interests is dressing up so when the local pub has a dress up night (Naughty Nurses and Dirty Doctors) I'm all but dragged along in the frenzy of last minute accessory purchases, pre-drinks and impersonating police officers (I figure a cop is pretty close to a doctor and since my brother actually is one I borrow one of his shirts and buy a cap gun for the holster).
In retrospect it had disaster written all over it, it had been 5 weeks since I gambled though (the longest period since I was 18) and I was feeling pretty good about it.
So how did we go from Friday night high-spirits and hijinks, to Tuesday night being forced to accept an ultimatum of going to Rehab after stealing $5500?
Well that involves personal motivations, and mine started, as early as I can pinpoint, when I was 18.
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